


Beyond the Sea

by Nickib44



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Fluff, Gen, Marvel Universe, Memory Loss, Music, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 06:26:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4614642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nickib44/pseuds/Nickib44
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sounds. They just bring back so many memories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beyond the Sea

**Author's Note:**

> I know beyond a doubt
> 
> My heart will lead me there soon
> 
> We'll meet, I know we'll meet, beyond the shore
> 
> We'll kiss just as before
> 
> Happy we'll be beyond the sea

The man laid motionless in the middle of the room, surrounded by files, photos, records, and a laptop open to a Wikipedia page concerning the end of World War II, not that he really knew how to use it, though. His friend had tried to show him a few things about the computer before leaving to train with… the others. The man couldn’t remember their names. His friend just ended up getting kinda confused by the laptop too, as he had barely learned how to use it yet himself, and both had resigned to trying to stick to physical records as much as they could. The world had changed so much, and neither really had the chance to change with it.

A gust of wind flew through the open window, causing some of the papers on the carpet to fly around the room. The man sighed, and slowly rose to his feet. He staggered over to the window, and slammed it closed, feeling the glass shake in the frame. It had started to get very cloudy, and thunder could be heard somewhere far away. He returned to his place in the middle of the floor, crawling around to grab all of the papers strewn across the room. He didn’t know how they were supposed to be sorted. They didn’t leave him with that ability, to think that critically about these types of things. He wasn’t made to sort papers, after all.

He turned toward some of the photographs, his eyes drawn to the same one they always were. He brought it closer to his eyes, holding it in-between his index and middle fingers on his good arm. Well, technically, his other arm is better, but he now preferred using his right one as much as possible. Normal is probably a better word for it, not good or great. Ordinary, not mechanical and inhuman.

The picture was of the man and his friend, arms draped over each other’s shoulders, luminous smiles plastered on each face. This was the object that had brought back the most memories so far. The photo was taken right after one of the larger Hydra camps was destroyed. The mood in the air was one of celebration and a feeling that the war would soon be over. They were so close to the Hydra headquarters they could practically see the Skull. Of course everyone was happy. No one could know that the next mission, the one to capture the Skull’s treasured scientist, would be the man with the brown hair’s last. He definitely remembered that day. The felling of the metal bar snapping off the train door, his friend screaming his name, the fall, his bloody stump of an arm, the cold, white lab where he was reborn. He always remembered that, no matter how many times they erased him. That, and his friend.

His hand was shaking now. He had been getting too lost in his mind again. He breathed in deeply and set the picture down slowly, covering it with other photos. His eyes were then drawn towards a file near his feet. It was an old military record of a soldier. He opened the folder, greeted by the serious face of someone looking to someone outside the frame. He was lined up with other soldiers, probably at a boot camp. He looked so confident, so strong. He was ready to act. On what, the man could not remember. He saw his own face in the photograph, yet it was not him. Part of him maybe, but not all of him. He desperately wanted to be that man again. To have normal problems. To interact with people normally. To be able to speak to his friend of the past, present, and future. He only knows the present now. That’s it. His friend is often terrified by this.

The man started reading the biography of the soldier. Born March 10, 1917, became a sergeant and shipped out to England, cornered by Nazis, then taken prisoner by a different German organization: Hydra. He was experimented on after becoming too weak to continue working on building some kind of super bomber called the Valkyrie. He was freed along with other POWs by his friend. He remembers that. He remembers seeing his friend standing over him, their roles of victim and guardian having been reversed. His friend looked different, though. He was confident and strong, everything the man had been only a few months before.

The rest of the biography talked of the Hydra missions and the soldier’s “death”. No mention of the man’s rebirth. This file was closed years ago. He tossed the folder by the pictures and rubbed the pulsing area above his eyebrows with his right hand. He was not only shaky, but also developing a migraine. These were common and severe. The man crawled over to the couch against the wall behind him and hoisted himself onto it. He tried to make himself comfortable, tossing and turning, but nothing alleviated his pain. He knew that the bed and some aspirin would make him feel more comfortable, but didn’t feel like standing for fear that it would only make his headache worse. He laid his left hand over his forehead, the cool metal numbing the pain a bit. It was good for some things.

The man suddenly jumped to his feet, ready to attack when he heard the door open. His friend’s voice boomed his name. The man relaxed. 

“Hey, hey, it’s me. It’s only me,” his friend cooed calmly, hands held up in a surrendering position. He had seen the man’s tense stance.

“Yes…” the man muttered, slowly setting himself down on the couch again.

His friend softened and leisurely closed the door. The man wouldn’t do anything brash now. He set his bag he had brought with sweaty training clothes down by the door. “You been looking at the files again? Trying to remember?” He said, glancing at the man.

The man didn’t respond for another few seconds, as if meticulously planning his sentence. His friend was used to this. “I remember some things. I always remember important things.”

“That’s good. I think you’re starting to really come along. Do you feel any different? Do you feel like you used to?” his friend asked, strolling over to the couch to sit.

“…maybe. Sometimes. When I look at the photos of you and I, I see myself in them, not a soldier with my face.”

“Good. I think that’s good,” his friend put his hand on his shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly.

“Unless you have more pictures of us, it’s not going to be enough,” the man said quietly, hanging his head. It was pounding.

His friend sighed and stood. He knew that if the man were to ever remember, to ever have a chance of becoming the soldier again, he needed to believe that it could happen. It sounded cheesy and meaningless, which is why he never voiced this to the man. He knew the man would take it that way, like he took most things. His friend rose to his feet. “Your head hurtin’ again?” he asked. The man nodded. “You want some aspirin?” The man shook his head. His friend shook his head too. “Well how am I supposed to help you, then? I don’t like seeing people in as much pain as I know you must be in. It only makes it worse that it’s you.”

The man was silent, massaging his head with both hands. His friend stood for a minute with his hands on his hips, head down, before making his way over to the record player. He had purchased one for the man to try to make his new living quarters feel homier, and to remind him of the old days. He noticed that it hadn’t been used yet.

“Remember these? There’s nothin’ like them.” His friend fingered through some of the records he had also brought over. He stopped on one of his favorites and started inspecting it. It was one of the last songs he had heard before going into the ice. Before his rebirth. He learned the lyrics after being thawed out, and was singing it for weeks. He slid the record out of its casing, set it on the spindle, and placed the stylus down on the outer edge of record. It clicked into the grooves, and started playing automatically.

The man’s eyes shot up towards the record player the moment the first few notes played. “La Mer, right? It’s French for ‘the sea’. I liked this song, they were playing it all the time when we were overseas. It came out right before… the train.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is,” his friend stuttered. This was unexpected. His friend went with it. “This is a new version. Um… a few months after the train, someone put words to it. It’s called ‘Beyond the Sea’ now.”

“Oh… I like it.” The man paused, listening intently. The music guided him, drifting into the recesses of his memory. “We danced to this. The night that we destroyed that Hydra base-”

“-to the west of the mountains the headquarters were in. That… that’s right man. That was a really fun night. I forgot.”

“Me too. I remember... being drunk, maybe. I think I had to have been drunk to have willingly tried to teach you how to slow dance for that chick you were always going on about. The one that always ignored me?”

“Yeah, that didn’t work out so well… but yeah, you were SO drunk. Not that I hadn’t seen you drunk before, but you were really drunk, man.”

A small smile spread across the man’s face. His friend watched in awe. This was... bizarre to say the least. His friend remembered reading something about this, however. It is called echoic memory. It deals with how people associate senses with memories, and in the case of echoic, it is the sense of sound. Everyone has experienced it at one time or another. Everyone has heard a song that reminds them of a specific moment in time, good or bad, where it was blaring in the background. His friend got an idea. Maybe now. Maybe now he could remember…

“Hey, can I ask you something?” The man was shaken out of his musical daze, smile faded, eyes trained on his friend. He nodded.

“Do you… do you remember your name?” there was so much hope in his friend’s voice. There was a kind of sad desperation in his eyes, like his last glimmer of hope lay in what the man’s response would be. The man realized this, and started to think. His brows furrowed. His headache had gone away, miraculously, so his head was very clear. What did that file say on the soldier… what was his name…?

“Come on. I know it’s there. Think… think hard.” His friend squatted down in front of him. The man was avoiding his gaze, searching his mind. “How about trying to think of me saying it? I know you don’t remember us meeting in the street last year. They erased that as soon as they could. Think of that night, when we were dancing. I’m sure I said it then.” The man was silent. “Or maybe one of the times you saved me in the alleys when I was smaller. Before you went to war?” Silence. “What about when we first met. You introduced yourself to me by your nickname only, not your full name. You thought it sounded cooler. I thought so too.” Silence. “What about… before you fell?” There was a slight flicker in the man’s eyes. His friend knew he remembered that day too well. “When you were hanging onto the door of the train. I tried to reach out to grab you. What. Did. I. Shout?” The man desperately searched and searched his memories. He could pinpoint that day easily. But what did his friend say? His head started to hurt. He wasn’t getting anywhere. He was getting frustrated. He started shaking a bit and held his head in his hands, eyes staring at the floor.

His friend waited… and waited… and waited. He was taking too long. It wasn’t working. This isn’t working. The soldier wasn’t home right now. In that moment, his friend finally faced the most horrifying thought he had carried through this mess: that soldier was never coming home. He shook his head and rose to his feet. The man didn’t move from his position on the couch. He was still thinking. His friend took a moment to rub his face and take a breath before turning to shut off the music. He slid the record out and put it back in its casing, glancing back at the man. He hadn’t moved yet. The room was so quiet. It seemed eerie now. His friend was in a quiet room with a man he barely knows who has a metal arm. He needed to get out. All hope drained from his mind as he grabbed his bag he had come in with. He’d be back later of course. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after that. Maybe he could try to get to know this new man. Maybe they could be friends like he used to be with-

“Bucky.” His friend whipped his head around. The man was now standing in front of the couch, staring his friend right in the eyes. He was wearing a luminous smile. His friend dropped his bag as the bottom of his vision started to blur.

“Steve, I remember my name.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys liked this! I had so much fun writing it. Then again, my heart was aching the entire time, and I had to stop every once in a while to compose myself, but it was all fun! I hope this made you feel as many emotions as I did while writing it. I love music and the idea of how it is so closely associated with memory, so this just seemed perfect! I would love to hear feedback, and once again, I hope you enjoyed! See you next time! :)


End file.
